


Burn

by bailong05



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Angst, China, Cultural References, Depressing, Qing Ming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2020-01-04 19:21:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18350090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bailong05/pseuds/bailong05
Summary: Qing Ming, a Chinese festival honoring the dead. Wufei didn't really believe in the myths and superstitions behind the festival, but observing it was the least he could do for the woman he'd failed to protect.





	Burn

Wufei sank to his knees, his eyes on the small stone in front of him. He felt a little foolish—no, that wasn’t true. He felt many things, and perhaps foolish was one of them, but it was by far not the most prominent. He pulled a small cloth from his pocket and ran it over the stone, cleaning nonexistent dust and dirt off its polished surface. He could see his reflection.

He didn’t remember what happened. Not really. He knew, of course—he’d never allowed himself to forget that. But the details, the actual memory of the event itself was gone. The one thing he could remember with any clarity was the moment his life had irrevocably changed, the moment a girl he really barely knew leaned against his shoulder and closed her eyes, never to open them again.

His life had been thrown into turmoil at that moment. Not that it had ever truly been peaceful, but before then he’d been so sure of himself and what he’d wanted. Now, three years after that moment, a year after accepting a job he never would have contemplated before then, he still didn’t know what he wanted or even who he was anymore.

Nataku forgive him.

There was a dull ache in his chest that had never gone away after she’d died. Sometimes the ache lessened and he could pretend, for a moment, that it had never been there, but most times it grew until it was less dull and more sharp, as if someone had driven a knife into his chest and was twisting it without mercy. Sometimes he wished someone would.

But no one had yet and he couldn’t bring himself to do it himself, so here he sat, paying homage to a headstone with no tomb. Her tomb had been destroyed with his colony—something else he’d had to add to his guilt. He’d honestly had no plans to make anything like the headstone, either. He’d set up a small shrine in his bedroom for her that he prayed at every day for her forgiveness, for her approval, for her to somehow not be disappointed in him even though he knew it was futile, especially with his actions during the Uprising. What need had there been for a headstone?

Then he’d remembered Qing Ming, a festival he’d eschewed as a child. Why should he honor people he had either never met or who had never cared for him? It didn’t matter that they were family, his living family members had always made it very clear he was nothing more than a disappointment, weak and unworthy of the family name.

That had included her. She had been the most vocal about it, even, but while he still had no inclination to honor anyone else in his family—parents included—honoring his wife was the least he could do after causing her death.

So he’d commissioned her headstone. Black marble, with only her name and a twisting, curling dragon carved into it, it was simple and beautiful—like her. She had hated him, it was true—most people did, if he was honest—but he… he had cared—did care—far more than he’d wanted to admit. She had been everything he was not.

The ache intensified, making his eyes water, but the tears didn’t spill over. He’d lost the ability to cry a long time ago. He’d only cried once since he’d been a small child, after a duel he had never intended to walk away from and yet somehow managed to do so twice, once as a loser who had been allowed to live and once an unwilling victor. It was the second time he’d walked away that he’d cried, and he still had no idea how. Nor was he capable of duplicating the reaction. Despite what people commonly assumed about him he did feel, sometimes too much, but his childhood had depended on his ability to hide his emotions, to maintain the appearance of not caring when in reality every insult hurled his way, every cold declaration of his lack of worthiness had dug and stung until he’d found it pointless to even try anymore.

He closed his eyes, taking a deep, ragged breath. He wasn’t here to wallow in his own despair and self-loathing. He was here for Meiran, to honor her, not disrespect her by thinking only of himself. He forced his thoughts back onto what he was doing and turned, reaching into his bag. Old tradition held that the afterlife was much like it was before death and that the dead needed all of those things they’d needed in life. To make sure their loved ones had what they needed, those who still observed the old traditions would burn paper effigies of those things—specifically money, but other things as well. Burning them, it was believed, would send the real thing to the dead.

He had, of course, brought a somewhat sizable stack of paper money with him, but instead of the paper phones and laptops most modern Chinese people were burning for their loved ones’ enjoyment he’d chosen instead to bring a small scale paper dao—something he was sure she’d appreciate much more than a phone. He didn’t really believe she needed money or a sword, of course, or that burning paper representations of them did anything but produce smoke and ash, but somehow it felt wrong to observe Qing Ming without doing it.

He drew a circle on the ground, digging it out of the earth with a small rock and making it as perfect a circle as possible, then lit the incense sticks he’d placed on either side of the headstone. Then he took the stack of paper money and placed it in the middle of the circle, lighting it up. He waited until the entire stack had caught fire before he added the dao, then sat, watching the fire dance until there was mostly nothing left and the fire had begun to die.

There was one other item that he’d brought, the item that had reminded him of Qing Ming in the first place. He’d first seen it over a month ago, when Duo had dropped it on his desk with a careless, “Here.” He wasn’t the only one who had been given something; all the former Gundam pilots had been given the same thing—a full color, hand drawn ink painting of their respective Gundam customs.

What he had with him wasn’t the original, of course. He imagined Duo would be angry if he’d burned it, and it was such a skillful rendering that he didn’t want to disrespect him like that, so he’d made a copy and tucked the original away somewhere where it would be well preserved. He’d trimmed the copy down until it was only the mobile suit with no trace of white background to be seen, and kept it in a folder. He hoped Meiran wouldn’t be offended that he was burning a copy and not the original.

He paused a moment, tracing the lines of his Gundam. Except it wasn’t his Gundam, was it? Not in truth. He’d never wanted it, never wanted to be what everyone else had wanted him to be, while she had. She had wanted it so badly, and in the end had given her life for it. By all rights it was hers and he had no right to keep it from her.

He wondered if there was truly an afterlife, and if Meiran could see him now. Did she know what he was trying to do? Would she understand? Would it please her? He didn’t know.

He put his lighter to the paper Gundam, and watched it burn.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote and posted this on ff.net a year ago, but I have since become a member of this community and wanted to upload it here. It was hard waiting for Qing Ming to come back around to do it, but now that it has I can finally upload this. It is important to note that I am not Chinese, I have just been living in China for the past three years. I am no way an expert on Chinese culture, festivals, or even this festival in particular. All the information I present in this oneshot is what I have learned while living here, and I sincerely doubt my knowledge is extensive.
> 
> I hope you didn't get too depressed reading this, but I feel that the trauma Wufei suffered is too often overlooked. I could go on for hours on that, but I won't. If you liked this, leave a review or at least give me a kudos, pretty please?
> 
> Thanks for reading,  
> bailong05


End file.
